Monday, September 14, 2015


Affiliated, in this lifetime, to paper and pen.
To keys and screen and ink - strewn about
The desire to control the nerve I own
Has been lifelong - substantial - devout.
But what if I am wrong... Strong-arming myself this way?
Today I am conflicted; how often have I erred in defining
The context of these engrossing deliberations?

Fuck the touching down of 'what if'.

Control, control, control
How much sabotage has engulfed my native mind?
Fluted sounds of whimsy have never been followed
Never been allowed to pursue more clarity;
Squashed in the delayed reaction of hesitation
I have become intolerant to encouraging my vulerabilty
Too effectively, too concisely, too well.

Do I wander back out hence the way I came?

Or do I jump the current path I travel-
To sandblast all known patterns of difficulty and defeat?


If I want to heal the ache with something more than ignorance.
I ache. Ache from the tightly bolted constriction
The harness held firmly in place, tied to lock away
The nerve to flow outward, with all things left undone.
I ache for more...
I ache for release, for a filter-free existence
'Away from the Maddening Crowds...'

I surge in tension. As I have so many fucking times before
Tell me, I ask of myself, "Tell me what comes next?"
In this place of wretched defeat, where I have boldly turned outward
In every direction but forward.
I'm in denial. I loathe the abysmal gap between conscience
And corruption.

Until I stop wasting time with useless thought
That paintbrush will continue to languish
Burdened by the inactivity of an owner who is for now-
Laboring in a cesspool of indecision.

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